I turn to see a woman behind me and say, “What the fuck do you want? I’m busy. This isn’t the time.”

The woman smiles at me and whispers in a croak, “I like what you’re doing. You’ve got to know everything. Go on, go on checking his every move, follow his every footstep and listen carefully to his every word: he could be lying to you at any moment. I’m here to help you, to make you realize that reality isn’t as you imagined it; it’s actually very different.”

“Really?” I say contemptuously, “and what would you know about that?”

She doesn’t reply but goes into the kitchen and pours a little water into her glass. Without saying a word, she turns toward me and inverts the glass of water. To my astonishment the water doesn’t fall to the ground but instead follows a precise and perfect horizontal line. A line that stops a few inches from my nose.

I look at the woman and ask her in amazement, “What is this?”

She folds her arms and, with a smile, replies, “This is your reality. Transparent, resolute, fluid. You poured it out where it seemed most appropriate to pour it, and now you’re living in it, but the space in which you’ve liberated it isn’t one that belongs to you. What you see before your eyes is your reality, your true reality, in the place where it should be: in a perfect straight line flowing in different directions simultaneously. That line is you.”

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that I’ve made bad choices? Is that it?”

She shakes her head and comes over to me, sending ripples through the water that still hangs over the room.

“What I want to tell you,” she says, “is that until now you’ve concealed your true nature because you’re attracted by the idea of a peaceful, normal life. But that isn’t what you want; it never has been. And what you’re doing now, checking up on him, is a sensational gesture on your part: the first in a long series. That’s why I say to you: enough of this nonsense, take a good look at what’s in that bloody mobile, and think hard about what you find.”

The rapid stream of words makes her cough again, and while the convulsions make her tremble and twist, she disappears. She fades away.

The little stream that floated a few inches from my nose vanishes, as well, while the sounds and the cold of the room are heard and felt once more.

Not upset in the slightest, as though I had just opened the front door to a neighbor asking to borrow a couple of lemons, I go on running through the fascinating data supplied to me by that diabolical little machine.